wax-like flowers attracted us by their fragrance. While gathering some of them a young man came up and spoke to us. Fearing he would think we were going to offer the flowers to the idols in the temple, Dr. House said, "I am not going to offer these, as you would, to idols which can neither see nor smell them, but shall give them to my wife, who can enjoy them." The tree seemed almost alive with gay butterflies. Several priests had gathered about us, and when they were asked if all this life and happiness and beauty did not make them think there must be a wise and good Creator who made the trees, flowers and butterflies with their gay dress, they replied "Pen eng" (They made themselves). Oh, is it not sad that the religion of this poor people teaches them there is no living God, no Creator who made this beautiful world? The dead god Buddha that they worship, whose images are in every temple, was but a man like themselves, and, now that he has left the world, knows and cares nothing about it.
An old priest begged our umbrella. The doctor said, "If I give it to you, very soon you will want to make merit, and will perhaps spread it over some senseless idol of brick and mortar that cannot feel the heat as we do." Soon after, as they followed us to the boat, we actually saw an old umbrella which the wind had blown from a dilapidated image it had sheltered. When re-
